


It's Not Your Time to Leave

by amongthieves



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: AU, Angst, Cancer, F/M, You might cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amongthieves/pseuds/amongthieves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond has cancer, and he's tired of it. He's alienated himself away from everyone, but Lucy still manages to stick around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Your Time to Leave

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr, figuring some people here might like to read it! Set after the Assassin's save the world, and if everyone had a chance a second beginning.

He sits quietly in his apartment, in his brown loveseat facing the tv with everything off, including the lights. Rain taps at his window, not even bothering to ask to come in as it slips past the cracks in the frame.

The headache chipping away at the back of his head needs to fuck off.

It’s been two days, and he’s not really sure who he should call. If he should call anyone. His phone lays on the coffee table, among a mixture of magazines that he hasn’t even bothered to read since Lucy left them over one day. She would read National Geographic, even though it was more of Rebecca’s thing. Come to think about it, maybe they were Rebecca’s, considering they lived together. Anything to make the cost cheaper at this time in their lives. The transition from an Assassin to an average American citizen wasn’t as easy as they expected.

They made homes in New York. Rebecca and Lucy both in an apartment close to a university that Desmond forgets the name of (his memory is terrible these days, and for good reasons), and Shaun is off somewhere in Soho with one of his rich boyfriends. Nate or something. It doesn’t matter. Nothing in the future really matters.

Cancer.

Cancer matters, he guesses. It’s all that matters now. His percentage is low, and he finds it unconventionally ironic that it’s all in his head. A tumor nestled sweetly in his brain, surgeons unable to reach it. So they try chemo. They try radiation. But they don’t try very hard - why waste resources on a deadbeat Bad Weather bartender? He taps his fingers against the arm of the couch.

In the end, he decides to call Lucy. “Hey, it’s Lucy! I’m not here right now, but I might be pretty soon? Just leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you soon!” Her voice is cheery and optimistic - she has a second chance at life. After dealing with all his shit, Abstergo, and the Assassins, she gets to start anew.

Rebecca’s taken up snowboarding again. She plans to go to Europe with her boyfriend (or girlfriend, Desmond was never really sure) next winter. At a loss, he’s tempted to call Shaun but his stomach churns at the thought of some witty sarcastic comment being thrown in his face, followed by the dial tone. They never got along, and there was a reason for that. But he didn’t exactly know the reason. So he let the Brit have it his way, and continued their petty fights.

Fatigued, he gets up and stumbles his way over to bed. In his studio apartment, there isn’t much space for him to move around, but it allows him to pay the hospital bills. He might as well move into the oncology department. Or move to a hospice. But he liked his small freedoms.

Like going out to the club and taking a girl home, pretending like things were normal. He was weak, but he wasn’t fading out yet. Still had enough energy to play, and wake the next morning to find her gone with a number scrawled out on a piece of paper on his bedside table.

In the following week, he sleeps with Lucy. She notices that he’s sick, but doesn’t make a comment. She stays the morning, and they have toast in bed. There are still others that accompany him to bed, but the numbers dwindle as he fails to finish the job one night. Exhaustion is his master, and he will submit to her when she demands it. Lucy says nothing when she finds a bra not her own around the bed; really, he needs to clean but he’s too tired to ever do so. He thinks she knows - not about the girls, obviously, but the cancer.

One morning, when he wakes up, Lucy is already dressed and eating cereal at the table. Quickly, Desmond notices something is off in the room. There’s a bouquet of flowers on his coffee table. “What are those?” He sits up, yawning, muscles aching.

“I wanted to visit Clay’s grave today. It’s been a year almost.” She looks over at him and flashes him a sad smile before returning to a spoonful of Cheerios. “Do you mind? You can stay here if you’d like-“

“No, it’s okay. I’ll go. Let me get dressed.” So he gets dressed, wearing something better than dingy jeans and a t-shirt. A new shirt that Lucy bought him, telling him that he’d wear it out eventually. It made him laugh, and that in turn caused Lucy to scowl and walk away. It wasn’t like they could avoid it.

The car ride is quiet and Desmond is used to Lucy’s calm, controlled driving, with the occasional mumble of a ‘fucking idiot’ that cut her off. She’s still not used to driving in the city. It’s a tiny bit amusing. Arriving at the graveyard, she parks and they get out, making their way past the iron gate and onto the wet gravel that leads them into branches of different graves. They follow the path they know so well.

Halfway through the way, Lucy begins to cry. Desmond says nothing but takes her hand, watching her clutch the yellow flowers tighter, the plastic wrap around them crackling. When they reach the tombstone, she gently puts down the flowers and whimpers, “I’m sorry, Clay. You were more than a number to us.” And by us, Desmond doesn’t know exactly who she means so he shrugs it off and in the next moment, Lucy’s hugging him, squeezing tightly. Surprised, he returns the embrace, resting his chin on her head.

“I don’t want you to go. We’ve only just started out lives.” It’s barely a whisper.

Desmond once again shrugs with her around him. “I have to. It’s not fair, I know.” She trembles and tightens her grip on him, afraid to let go. He squeezes, kissing the top of her blonde hair and mouths a small, “I’m sorry, Lucy.”

A month later, in a dreary hospital room, Lucy tightens her grip on Desmond’s hand and doesn’t let go when he does.


End file.
